by Austin,Robin
Newman sighs like he’s due for a nap, then clears his throat. “I can’t say when Dr. Rodham will be available, Ms. Abbott. The Board members, including myself, thought it best that Dr. Rodham take a leave of absence while we are investigating this matter. I concede that you should be allowed to visit Ms. Cohoon, but this is no longer a news story. It’s a criminal matter and needs to be handled with the utmost care and discretion—”
“On leave? Has Dr. Rodham been dismissed from his duties at Ashland?”
“I said nothing about a dismissal. He’s on leave, and again, this is no longer a news story. Probably never should have been. You’re not entitled to know why the Board came to the conclusion it did. Furthermore, I can assure you that you will not be told whether you have an attorney, the police, the towns’ residents, or the press gunning for you.”
After some chilly silence on both our parts, Newman shares another heavy sigh and agrees to let me visit Eunice in the recreation room after dinner. Twenty minutes should be sufficient, he tells me, along with the fact that someone will accompany me.
Someone to listen to all I have to say and perhaps to find out what Eunice or Matilda has to say too. As far as anyone gunning for me in Ruston, I’m sure that will never happen. What I’ll probably never be sure of though is what happened to get Rodham kicked to Ashland’s curb.
Chapter Twenty Nine
§
As planned, I drive out to the Old Ruston Highway. I’m as sick of Ruston as everyone in it is of me. The clouds are midnight black and as full as a pregnant woman long past her due date. The winds nearly howl, and even without a house in sight, I can smell burning logs and the musty haze of wet leave piles. Another week or two and the tourist traffic will dwindle, the shops will all but close to gear up for the year’s final holiday push.
Once I find a place to park, I sit in my car and listen to my mother tell me about the nurse who quit because my father wouldn’t stop touching her. She says she won’t tell me what kind of touching is involved, and I truly don’t want to know. She’s optimistic though because the doctor wrote my father a new prescription– something to relax him.
When I say it’s just something to sedate him, she grunts. Then she tells me not to worry. My mother actually believes that drugs cure. Everything will be fine with my dad, she’s sure of it. She’s not so sure about my own life when she finds out where I am. She demands I get myself home to tend to my own problems instead of everyone else’s.
I’ve parked at one end of the country road behind a long row of cars and start walking to the other end. Sale signs flap in the wind and each shop deserves a bargain hunter’s once over. I’m watching for Shirley. My inquisitive mind won’t let even the riskiest riddle go undecoded. Common sense tells me to let the police handle things, but still I’m watching for the woman.
After three hours and two purchases, I reach the last of the shops on the highway and turn back towards the artists’ colony. I have time for a quick look around before heading to Ashland. As I cross between the shops and the road that leads to the outbuilding, I see him– the pig farmer.
Roger Cohoon is standing at one of the food stands, the one that smells like roast pig. His thick arms are crossed tightly against a dirty work shirt. He’s wearing his grubby cap backwards, and a clump of greasy black hair pokes out the opening. His dark eyes focus on me, and he doesn’t bother to pretend they don’t. Maybe it’s the distance, but he seems to be looking right through me. This thought evokes a nervous laugh, and goose bumps rankle my ever thinning skin.
He’s shorter than I recall, more hunched in the shoulders, and far less intimidating with a dozen or more people nearby. I consider waving, wonder if I should be polite and go speak to him about his sister, the niece he never knew he had.
Just when I make up my mind to go talk to him, he turns and takes off in the other direction. His upper body leans far forward as his arms flail haphazardly, windmilling his way through the crowd. It doesn’t take long before he’s out of view.
If it was anyone else, I might have been offended. Since it’s Roger Cohoon, I’m relieved though mystified. It’s not like I did something that tarnished the family’s reputation. Then again, perhaps a lifetime of hardships weigh too heavily for him to bother with common courtesy. I’m sure he’s the type who values people minding their own business over offering their sympathy– privacy no matter how alienating the consequences.
A gust of wind catches me off guard and Roger is easily forgotten. The shopkeepers are scrambling to move their things inside and close all open doors. I’m halfway to the artists’ colony when I decide to head back to town. I want to avoid driving in a storm, and who knows how long it will take the nurses to allow me past the iron gates of Ashland. No sooner do I make up my mind to go, than clouds let loose on the few of us who haven’t already fled.
I rush to my car, one of the last on the long, muddy road. I have to wait for the onslaught of retreating shoppers going in both directions before I can pull out. Everyone is scurrying for shelter at the same time.
The wind slams against my car, slams the rain sideways forcing me to drive with a firm grip on the wheel. The trip back to town is usually twenty minutes; I’ll be lucky if I make it in twice that time. After each gust, I speed up trying to lessen the distance between me and the traffic in front of me. All the drivers seem more adapt than me at maneuvering through such a fierce storm. Despite my efforts, I lag behind and finally opt for safety over companionship.
When I see headlights approaching too fast, then get too close behind me, I slow down and move closer to the side of the road. The vehicle is a truck and the height of the lights makes them blinding in my rearview mirror. I finally move the mirror away to avoid the distracting glare. When I think the driver has backed off, I re-position the mirror and see that the truck is so close, the lights are being partially blocked by my car’s rear end.
I roll down my window and am immediately soaked by the thrashing rain. I wave my arm frantically for the driver to pass. There’s no oncoming traffic, and I’m driving way below the speed limit. I roll up the window and slow down even more, thinking I’ll give the driver no other choice but to go around. I’m wrong.
I dread thinking it’s some good old country boy who’s had one too many afternoon beers and plans to teach me how to drive in a rainstorm. As soon as he flashes his high beams at me, I’m sure I’m right. When I speed up a little, he does the same.
As far as I can see, there’s no traffic in front of me or behind us. It’s just me and him and the unrelenting rain. I’m reaching for my phone when standing water catches my tires and pulls me sideways before my grip tightens on the wheel. I’m back to a slower pace and am sure he’ll get bored with this game soon.
Before my own actions kill us both, I adjust the mirror away once again and concentrate on the road. I’m keeping my speed constant, a good fifteen miles below the speed limit, when he passes so close I have to brake to keep from slamming into him.
“Idiot!” I start to blast my horn, but don’t out of fear that he’ll come back.
As soon as I see his tail lights, I release a huge breath I didn’t even know I was holding in. With the rain and the growing darkness, I can’t make out the color of the truck or the license plate. I’m just glad he’s gone and I can focus on my driving.
The road curves wide, signaling the last stretch of highway before the town center. I fiddle with the heater and cold air blasts my equally cold, wet clothes and hair before warming. With any luck I’ll be dry before I get to Ashland.
Between frantic swipes of the windshield wipers, I see blurry red lights in the distance. Giant rain drops catch their reflection and make it appear as though they’re dripping blood onto the roadway.
My first thought is that someone has had an accident. My second thought is of the aggressive driver who probably caused it.
As I get closer, I slow down and try to make out the shapes ahead. Red lights and not much else. The clo
ser I get, the more I realize the lights are two tail lights and the only vehicle in sight is a truck, stopped in my lane.
My heart is beating so fast, I’m sure I should pull over and calm down. I’m barely going twenty miles an hour, but I’m getting closer than I want. There could be another vehicle in front of the truck or in the ditch beside it. I tell myself that there are more trucks in Ruston than there are cars, but I know it’s him. I know the driver’s waiting for me.
As far as I can see behind me, there’s no traffic. Likewise in front of me, no cars are heading our way. Passing will put him behind me again, and I’m no match for his dare devil thrills. If I turn around, he may come after me, and it’s a long way to the next signs of civilization. I ease my foot on the brake and stop my car in the middle of the highway, foolishly waiting to cause an accident, but still there’s no headlights behind me.
I’m at least twenty miles from town and I regret even considering it, but I pull Detective Martins’ card from my wallet. When he answers, my tone confirms how frantic I am.
“He’s pumping his brakes like a damn Christmas decoration,” I say, after explaining what’s happened. My voice is too loud even over the storm pounding my car.
Martin tells me to double check the locks on my doors. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” I yell. He wants to know if I have a weapon. “Yes, my fingernail file.” He tells me to get pen and paper out and be ready to write down the truck’s license plate. When I say I can’t make it out in the dark and the storm and my raging panic, he tells me to be ready in case he gets close enough.
“Write down the plates,” Martin says, “but be ready to duck or hit the gas.”
This conflicting advice doesn’t help in the least, though I get the feeling he’s been through this drill before.
“He’s backing up,” I shout, and drop my phone for pen and paper until I realize what I’m doing makes no sense at all. I can hear Martin yelling, but the phone’s fallen to the floorboards and I can’t see it anymore.
The truck is stopped again, and again the driver’s pumping his brakes like someone who’s trying to terrify me… unless it’s not the tailgater at all, but someone trying to warn me of something. Reason and logic escape me.
I fumble under the passenger seat and find my phone. “It’s okay,” I say. “He stopped. I’m sorry, I might have overreacted. It may be a driver who has car problems. I can’t tell what’s happening or if this is even the vehicle that was behind me.”
Martin tells me to stay where I am and to not unlock my doors for any reason. In the distance, I can hear a siren. The other driver must hear it too.
He makes a u-turn, getting too close to the cliff and heading in my direction, fishtailing in the standing water on a suicide mission. Then he switches lanes to mine. He’s coming straight at me.
I can’t think or move fast enough to get out of his way so I scream, drop face down to the passenger seat, and brace for impact.
Chapter Thirty
§
The roar of the engine was louder than the ripping of metal that spun my car sideways. Despite the deafening scrapes and buckling, I’m only slightly injured, physically. The impact wrenched my shoulder and left me borderline hysterical. The driver is long gone when Martin arrives with his discrete blue light flashing between the swipes of my windshield wipers.
I sit up and see a police car stop beside Martin’s before it speeds off in the direction the truck vanished. Martin is jogging to my vehicle in reflective raingear. I roll the window down just enough to get soaked again.
“You okay?” he yells, over the storm.
“Almost. My shoulder’s hurt. I don’t think I can drive.”
“Did you get the license number?”
“No, he came straight at me. All I could do was duck.”
Another police car pulls up and the two men huddle. The conversation is short, and the other officer moves on to join the pursuit. Martin calls a tow truck. I decline an ambulance, and he agrees to take me to the hospital to have my shoulder checked after the tow truck arrives. I consider calling Rick, but call Ashland instead to reschedule my visit with Eunice.
It’s late when I finish at the hospital. Martin took my statement while we waited for the x-ray results. He’s kind enough to offer me a ride back to the hotel after my sprained shoulder is secured in a sling and medication provided. Taxi service in Ruston is dubious at best in good weather. I sense Martin’s offer to drive me is more out of duty than sympathy.
He walks me to the hotel entrance. “Don’t open your door to anyone tonight,” he says, and is gone.
The next morning, I’m groggy but not nearly as sore as I thought I’d be. The mechanic from the garage where my car was towed tells me it isn’t pretty, but drivable. The police took photos and have okayed releasing it.
I assume crime scene investigations are significantly limited in Ruston by budget and resources. I can only hope they’re not also governed by good old country boy camaraderie.
The mechanic tells me they don’t do body work like this one needs, and that someone will drop it by the hotel later this morning.
Martin calls to say the officers were out most of the night but didn’t find the subject vehicle.
“If he’s out there, we’ll find him. With the kind of body damage his vehicle must have sustained, it’ll turn up sooner or later.”
“If?” I say.
Martin tells me he doubts it was someone from Ruston. I ask him about Roger Cohoon who I’d already mentioned seeing earlier, and how he didn’t appear happy to see me.
“Cohoon wouldn’t tear up his vehicle like that. Couldn’t afford to,” Martin says. “Man’s a little strange, but he’s not foolhardy. Probably kids with nothing better to do but drink and take to the highways to find some trouble. Wouldn’t be the first time teenage boys and liquor butted heads out on those roads. Driver probably just lost control. I’ve notified other agencies in the area. Whoever’s responsible, can’t hide forever.”
“This wasn’t an accident. I was targeted. I could have been killed. Apparently, I’ve made some enemies here. You need to take this more seriously.”
“Folks don’t like things stirred up is all, especially by outsiders. They don’t like newspaper reporters coming to town and sticking microphones in their faces and snapping their pictures. But no matter how much they don’t like any of that stuff, they don’t go around chasing other folks with their vehicles or running into them. Kids,” he barks, like he’s trying to drill it into my brain and shut my mouth.
“Reporters and picture taking are what they object to? No wonder it took an outsider to dig up their nefarious secrets.” Martin’s already hung up.
My visit with Eunice is scheduled for one o’clock. I want only to take a pain pill and sleep the rest of the day. I leave Rick a message that my car was damaged and I’m not sure when I’ll be leaving today. Then I call my mother. She says in her rushed, don’t-slow-me-down voice that she’s on her way out the door but wants me to know the agency sent over a new nurse.
“One who’s older and stronger.” These last words she says like it’s time to get tough and take charge.
I try to tell her I’m stuck in Ruston. She gives me no time to explain, saying she doesn’t have time to chat. When I ask to speak to Dad, she says it isn’t a good time.
At the diner, I order take-out at the counter to avoid the stares and whispers, or more likely, snickers that my shoulder sling and marred appearance encourage.
“I haven’t seen Kasey lately. She still work here?” I ask the waitress who’s giving me a deadpan stare.
“Guess so,” she answers as she walks away.
I see her and the cook with their lips snapping and eyes sneaking in my direction. I fear for the safety of my food.
At Ashland’s iron gates, I wait for someone to verify approval of my visit. Dr. Newman isn’t onsite, the voice from the intercom tells me. After some debate and a longer delay, the gates are
opened. I’m in, though clearly not welcome. Even someone as disdainful as Fowler, I’m sure still has the home court advantage.
I’m told Aljala will bring Eunice to the rec room. “Doctor said you’re not allowed in her room,” the receptionist says. She cocks her head and lifts her chin like she’s willing and able to take me to task if I think otherwise. I roll my eyes and walk away.
“Ms. Jan.” Aljala’s voice is booming. “What happened to you?”
“Minor shoulder sprain,” I say. “Hello, Eunice. Nice to see you.”
Eunice ignores me and is already heading to the rec room as we follow. Last night’s storm has forced all the residents to remain indoors. The room is filled with dozens of voices competing to be heard over a television that is blaring.
“It is best that you not talk to Ms. Eunice about your discovery in the woods. It could upset her.” Aljala gives me his wicked grin.
“According to Dr. Newman. But what do you think Eunice would like?”
Aljala’s laugh is deep and warm. He pats me on the back and guides me to a corner that Eunice has found for herself. Then he brings me a chair and says he’ll be near if I need him.
He starts to walk away but stops. His voice is soft and a little sad. “Some things are better left unknown to those with a fragile mind. One that cannot hold much news of this type. Simple is always better.”
I take the bohemian dress I bought earlier and a sweater, one I could not resist this last shopping trip, out of a bag and place them beside Eunice.
“A dress for special occasions in your favorite colors.” No reaction. “Winter’s coming soon. You can slip the sweater over your blouse when you feel a chill.”
